Vengeful Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

your day?” she asks in her usual singsong way, always sounding much older than her forty-two years.
    “Busy but good. How’s your day been? How’s Dad?”
    “He’s doing very well today,” she says, helping me out of my mac and hanging it on the hat stand in the vestibule. “He sat in his chair for the best part of the morning. We even managed a game of cards.”
    It’s another fleeting and increasingly rare moment of good health and happiness. I know better than to be optimistic but Sandy still beams with pride, her smile reaching her brown cheeks, her warm eyes glowing.
    “He’s been asking for you,” she adds. I can’t prevent a goofy grin spreading from ear to ear as I kick my shoes off onto the polished rosewood floor. “He has?”
    “He really has. Today’s been the best I’ve seen him in weeks.” She’s triumphant, like an invisible barrier has been crossed.
    “I can’t wait to see him. Thank you so much for looking after him so I could have a drink tonight.”
    “Don’t be silly, you don’t need to thank me. It’s nice to hear you want to go out. You need to remember you’re still you and you’re still young.”
    “I should say the same to you. Do you mind if I go straight up to see him?”
    “Not at all. Should I heat your dinner and you can take it up with you?”
    The irresistible scent of Sandy’s Toulouse sausage and lentil casserole suddenly fills the air around me and I realise I’m starving.
    “You’re my angel,” I say, planting a big kiss on her cheek, causing her to giggle and fuss her short black hair. “I’ll heat it myself. You put your feet up.”
    I tap my foot on the farmhouse tiles that match the units in the kitchen, willing the microwave to flash my bowl of casserole just a little quicker. Impatient, I open the door before the ping and take the semi-heated bowl upstairs with a freshly baked baguette, still warm from the oven. Sandy’s breads are to die for.
    His television is playing, the blue light flickering under his bedroom door on the first floor landing. Opening the door with my elbow, I tentatively step into the room.
    My father turns in his bed and gives me a dashing, warm smile. Despite his grey-white hair, he looks youthful, ardent and delighted to see me. This is what I’ve been waiting for all day. Neglecting my hunger, I set my casserole on his bedside table, my need to hold him overwhelming.
    He’s still beaming at me as I reach down and wrap my arms around him. He holds me tightly as if he’ll never let me go.
    Don’t cry, you’ll frighten him.
    I fight back the rivers building behind my eyes. I know my subconscious is right so I unravel myself from his tight cocoon and sit back into the chair by his bed.
    “Martha, I’ve missed you.”
    My world begins to crumble around me, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the syllables Mar-tha replay in my mind. My chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat.
    “No, Dad,” I choke. “I’m Scarlett.”
    Confusion distorts his face. “Where’s my Martha?”
    I bite down on my bottom lip to steady my wobbling chin as my eyes cloud.
    It’s not his fault. My subconscious reminds me.
    But I can still be pissed! I yell back at it.
    Taking a deep breath, I try to rationalise my thoughts, for me, for him. “Mum left a long time ago, Dad. I’m Scarlett, your daughter.”
    “No!” he yells. “No. No. No.”
    He flaps his arms on the bed.
    “Dad, please,” I croak. “I’m your daughter. Martha was your wife. Martha was my mother.”
    “I. Want. Martha!” he screams. His arms move from the bed to me, striking my chest and my face.
    “Dad!” I plead, grabbing his hands, shocked that he no longer has the strength to fight me.
    “Scarlett! Doctor Heath!”
    My dad stills and looks at Sandy. He’s coming back. He moves his gaze to me and I can no longer bear it. My shoulders shudder as uncontrollable sobbing takes over my body.
    “Sandy,” my dad whispers.
    “Yes, sir. Let’s get you settled